


you're all that's safe, you're all that's warm

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:01:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(in my restless heart)<br/>Anne Neville contemplates her situation after her marriage to Prince Edward of Wales. 'Maybe if she pretends it is Richard, sweet Richard, above her panting and sweating, the pain will ease. Richard would love her dearly, would cherish her – he would never hurt her as her husband is.' Set during episode 1x04 of 'The White Queen'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're all that's safe, you're all that's warm

His hands are icy cold around her ankles, and she swallows a scream when he tugs her forward, her hands desperately clutching her nightgown to her most secret place. She can feel the bare skin of his thighs on her ankles, his breath hot in her hair. She stares unblinkingly up at him, at this Edward so unlike the York king, refusing the urge to flee. This is what her father has told her to do, condemned her to; and she will complete her duty, even if it means to live through this terror. His chilly fingers brush past the fabric of her nightgown, gripping her tightly to the bed. The fabric of the cloth her lady mother-in-law placed below her as proof of the consummation is harsh against her now bare back, and she whimpers in fear softly. 

Her urge to scream rises when she feels him push into her, something within her tearing harshly. She sobs loudly, brokenly, hot tears coursing down her flushed cheeks. Izzy had not told her it would hurt so, and she feels betrayed somewhat by her sister, safe in England away from this brute and his cold lady mother. She had complained of a dull ache after she and George had been wed, but she had never told her of the pain, the horror of being violated so. 

Her husband thrusts into her harshly, glaring down at her. His nose presses against her flushed cheek, strands of his lank hair falling onto her face. He would almost be handsome, if he did not look at her so. Surely it was not like this for everyone; she had seen couples within her father’s household and within the royal court embracing in corners, had heard their playful squeals and moans of delight. Had she offended Margaret of Anjou in some way, for her son to punish her thus? 

Maybe if she pretends it is Richard, sweet Richard, above her panting and sweating, the pain will ease. Richard would love her dearly, would cherish her – he would never hurt her as her husband is. All she feels is pain, horrible pain, coursing through her body and she mourns for Richard and what could have been. Oh, if only she could have married him.

She weeps silently to think of how disgusted he must be to learn of her marriage, and she is sad not to have the chance to tell him she wishes it were not so, and that he is married to her instead as she has always desired, not this brute. 

Her husband snarls at the sight of her tears, and she whips her head to the side in preference of meeting his icy gaze. 

Her mother had told her to think of when she is queen (but with this brute at her side ruling England, the possibility now fills her with dread, not joy) to ease her through the pain, but she would gladly divulge herself of any future titles if only to have Richard as her husband, to have Richard above her instead of this beast! How could her father subject her to such torture? Her husband has been known to slaughter men without blinking, ordered men’s deaths at the age of seven. How could her lady mother and lord father think he would be gentle with their sweet Annie in the marriage bed? How could they have abandoned her so? 

In accordance to her thoughts, her husband tightens his grip on her, his nails digging into the skin of her wrists. She knows his actions will leave a mark, and she suspects he will wants to see her with them, physical evidence of his possession of her. She squeezes her eyelids together, her husband’s hands pinning her to the bed. 

She counts his thrusts silently in her head, gnaws on her bottom lip, thinks of Izzy and hopes George shall treat her well in England; she does anything to distract her from the pain he is causing her. It works to an extent, but the merest touch or graze from her husband jolts her back to the terror she has found in the marriage bed. 

It will be over soon. 

It has to be over soon. She cannot bear any more pain; cannot bear the sight of her husband above her. 

After he leaves, she can try to rid herself of his presence. She can scrub until her skin is raw, douse herself in rosewater, but she knows her body will never forget the pain her husband has caused her. 

Hopefully she will become pregnant quickly. Izzy did, and perhaps she is as fertile as her sister, God willing. Her husband will surely leave her alone for fear of hurting the baby, aware of the terrible nature of her sister’s recent birthing experience. There will be a short reprise from more pain, and she can spend nine months in relative peace within this den of vipers her father has abandoned her in, and bear a sweet baby to adore. If her father is successful in England, as she prays he will be, mayhap she can see Richard once more and feel the gentle warmth of his gaze that falls only on her, not first on Izzy or another lady of the court – just her, little Anne Neville. 

God willing, she will marry her sweet Richard one day, and his tender caresses will erase her memory of this dreadful experience. She will bear him sons with his tender eyes and her hair, and daughters whose eyes match her own but with the dark curls of their father. They will spend Yuletide at court, and her daughters shall marry only men of their choice. They will be a sweet little family, their children will play with George and Isabel’s, and Richard shall adore her as his eyes have so promised. 

She weeps silently, mournfully, as her husband rolls off her, panting heavily against her hair. 

If only it were Richard.


End file.
